


The Lucky Cup

by TheHufflebean (SevralShips)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - No Peter Pettigrew, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical being/creature equality activism and mention of inequality, Meta, Meta mention of the HP books, Minor run of the mill angst about being a werewolf and/or realizing your best mate is hot, Nonbinary Character, Not much angst mostly fluff, Original Character(s), Self-Insert, Slice of Life, Strangers to Lovers, This is what happens when an inside joke gets way tf out of hand, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Well maybe Peter still exists but he isn't a Marauder, shameless self-insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevralShips/pseuds/TheHufflebean
Summary: The Lucky Cup was Remus' favorite café. It was truly one of a kind, pride and joy of the whimsical Bryce Puck, who relied on the Sight to divine just precisely what each of their customers needed most.When Sirius' coffee brings with it the revelation of just what he's been feeling towards Moony, he must reckon with the messy contents of his heart.Bryce Puck and the bookish Samson Bast must do the same as they try to make sense of the imperfect wizarding world, the mysterious magnetism of one another, and the overwhelming evidence that helping one's self is nowhere near as easy as helping others.





	The Lucky Cup

**Author's Note:**

> So, some context. I was hanging out with two of my closest friends, ranting unsolicitedly about how I can't resist the allure of coffee shop AUs (despite my usual penchant for writing grimdark angst) and this idea cropped up as a joke. The two friends present became the basis of the two main OCs in this story. Basically one of them is an infuriatingly good judge of character and also has a gift for making really over-the-top beverages, while the other is their boyfriend and has always wanted to help people while also being a cute lil kitty cat. Somehow this turned into 20k words classic trope-iness because I don't know when to quit a bit! 
> 
> FYI, one OC is a transmasc nonbinary person, the other is a transman. I am cis, so although it's super important to me to be the best possible trans ally and to be as informed and sensitive as possible about trans experiences, I did not feel qualified to tackle their trans-ness as a plot point in this story (plus it might have complicated the tooth-rottingly sweet fluff feel I was going for and would definitely have inflated the already steadily growing word count). If anything regarding gender (or really anything else) does not sit right with you, please let me know in the comments! I will gladly add tags/trigger warnings, or in some cases make alterations, I really want this fic to be a safe cuddly place to curl up with a figurative magical hot cocoa! 
> 
> What started as a joke about a crackfic actually turned into a pretty warm and cozy little AU and I definitely don't think you need to know the real-life Bryce and Samson to get something out of i! I've never written anything like this so I'd especially love feedback to know how I did with this new genre! I usually write really long angsty slogs, not one shot slice of life floofies, but it was a really nice palate cleanser for me and I hope it will be for you too!
> 
> Ok, sorry for the long A/N! without further ado, enjoy!!

#### I. Thirst

It was one of those perfectly crisp days in late autumn, and Diagon Alley hustled and bustled beneath the searing blue of a cloudless sky, as it always had, as far back as anyone magical could remember. The first kiss of winter was in the air, as potioneers left _Slug & Jiggers Apothecary_ laden with various odd-smelling tinctures and suspicious-looking bits and bobs; down-on-their-luck academic types parted with volumes for a handful of sickles at _Slimchange’s Second-Hand Books_ only to be drawn in by the irresistible ink-and-binding aroma of Flourish and Blotts; while lovers of animals cooed through the windows of _Eeylops’ Owl Emporium_ and the _Magical Menagerie_, trying in vain to talk themselves out of the acquisition of a new friend. Some brave souls ignored the chilly weather in favor of their sweet tooth, stopping in for a scoop of Florean Fortescue’s finest, despite the Warming Charm they knew they’d need afterwards. Of course, there was always _The Leaky Cauldron_ if you were after a simple bite with a generous helping of gossip on the side, but for those in the know, in need of a cuppa, there could be no better place than Puck’s.

‘_Puck’s_’ was more formally known as _The Lucky Cup_, and there was no other place quite like it in the world, wizarding or otherwise. Tucked away from the main thoroughfare of Diagon, on a cozy little side street, _The Lucky Cup_’s storefront was small, with space for no more than a half dozen mismatched, scrubbed wooden tables. The wide window in the front was teeming with potted plants; soothing mint, invigorating rosemary, and zesty lemongrass, magically potent marigolds nudging their orange heads against leggy sprigs of french lavender, against the reaching twiggy arms of thyme. From some of the climbing tendrils hung baubles and blown-glass bulbs, which never seemed out of place even when the yuletide season was further off than this. The same was true of the Muggle fairy lights that festooned the walls, some places framing and other places obscuring the many hanging works of art and curios in cabinets. But the focal point of _The Lucky Cup_ was the low counter, where great gleaming machines poured out plumes of steam, indolent with the fragrances of coffee and tea and subtly sweet potions, and orderly trays of toffee bits, color-changing hundreds-and-thousands, nostalgia-niblets, and various other dainties awaited Puck’s nimble hands.

And truth be told, it was Puck who made _The Lucky Cup_ so special, not quite like any other tea room or café in the world. Bryce Puck was not your run of the mill barkeep, they were no hum-drum garden variety purveyor of beverages. Bryce Puck was an artist of flavor, their concoctions boggling the taste buds of even the most worldly wizarding folk. Though Bryce was small of stature, their personality was large, and their influence larger still. Bryce Puck’s shrewd sea-green eyes were discerning, and every time the opening café door engaged the little copper bells that tinkled a different tune by season, their even gaze sized up each new arrival discreetly. They made nearly everyone who approached their counter laugh, their quicksilver wit, little quips, and sly smile tempered always by the unmistakable warmth of their nature. _The Lucky Cup_ was a reflection of Bryce Puck, their impish demeanor and whimsical flair there in the choice of every mismatched teacup and saucer, every lovingly tended potted plant, every shining ornament, and carefully curated oddity. And of course, there was a degree of trust that it took to give _The Lucky Cup_ one’s custom, as Bryce Puck’s first move as proprietor had been to do away with the _Cup’_s menu, replacing it with a sign above the counter that bore their looping handwriting, guaranteeing absolute satisfaction with one’s drink or a full refund. Though many customers had been wary of the mystery drinks upon receiving them, not a single one had yet wanted their money back. 

Until today, that is.

“What exactly did you find wrong with it?” Bryce asked, their eyes never leaving Sirius Black’s face as they accepted the mostly-empty jadeite teacup they had filled for him some minutes prior. Their time at Hogwarts had overlapped, though it was obvious to Bryce that Sirius was not aware of this. The Marauder had always been very busy with Quidditch, practical jokes, gossip-making conflicts with his family, and dates with any number of fawning girls, too busy to have noticed the bookish Hufflepuff who had befriended the house-elves in the kitchen. Bryce remembered him, however, and therefore was unsurprised and unimpressed by the outburst from the famously histrionic Sirius.

“You bloody well know what was wrong with it!” Sirius steamed, tossing his long hair out of his eyes with an agitated jerk of his head, “I don’t fancy being _drugged_, and to be perfectly frank, it’s a bloody miracle the Improper Use of Magic Office hasn’t shut you down!”

“And why would they do that, Mr Black?” Bryce asked mildly as they counted out the sickles and knuts to refund the irate man’s drink.

“Because it’s _illegal_, that’s why!” Sirius braced his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned closer to Bryce, lowering his voice threateningly as he hissed, “Not to mention bloody well unethical! How do you sleep at night?”

“Quite soundly, in general,” Bryce replied, unfazed by the ire flashing in Sirius’ storm-grey eyes, “Apart from the occasional backache. You know, it may look easy, but it takes its toll, standing up here all day.”

“You disgust me,” Sirius’ lip curled back disdainfully, and Bryce privately thought it impressive how the disinherited former heir to the House of Black could harness that patented look of Pureblood disgust for so much more admirable (albeit misguided) a cause, “Acting as though this _gimmick_ of yours is so quaint,” he gestured broadly to the quirky interior of the shop, “Luring people into a false sense of security, only to trick them into drinking unsanctioned bloody _Love Potions_ and Merlin knows what else!”

“Love Potions?” Bryce repeated, incredulous, “Is that what you think was in there?” they asked. They raised one eyebrow wryly and glanced past Sirius’ leather-jacket-clad shoulder to where his companion, one of Bryce’s most loyal customers, sat clutching a massive polka dot mug full of hot cocoa. Remus Lupin was peering over the Soothing-Cinnamon-dusted peaks of whipped cream, his drawn features pinched into an expression of concern as he appeared to be trying to ascertain whether or not he needed to intervene.

“What?” Sirius staggered back a step, anger giving way to confusion on his striking features. The genuine puzzlement in Bryce Puck’s tone had caught him off-guard and thrown him off-balance; he’d lied his way out of detention a million times and could spot an innocent act a mile away, and Bryce had not been acting. _No Love Potion?_ Sirius glanced over his shoulder at Remus, his heart leaping at the sight of his best mate, his long rheumy hands gratefully cradling the warmth of his mug, his tired, fathomless amber eyes trained on Sirius already, wary and imploring him not to make a scene. As it had been doing since he’d drank his way half-way through his own (admittedly delicious) coffee and mint-cream concoction, his imagination conjured up a mad impulse to cross the pokey little tea room in a few strides, to warm Moony’s marvelous, moon-weary hands between his own instead of with a cup. _Lucky cup, indeed._ There was that crazy impulse to tangle his fingers in Moony’s tawny hair and let their lips meet with magnetic inevitability, to lick into Moony’s clever mouth and find with satisfaction that, just as suspected, it tasted of chocolate and all things dark and sweet. His heart ached with a need to _finally_ close a distance that yawned between them. That in itself was utterly bizarre because before they had made today’s visit to Remus’ favorite café, Sirius had had no sense of a distance between them at all, and on the contrary, had been entirely confident in the enduring closeness of their friendship.

He tore his eyes from Remus—no easy task, when as it turned out, he was quite smitten with the line of Remus’ jaw, and the scar that bisected the skeptical slant of his left brow, the small kissable shadow where the right corner of his mouth quirked in the beginning of his dear droll smirk, the way his tatty, too-big robes couldn’t entirely disguise the wiry strength coiled in his lanky frame—and looked back at Bryce Puck. They stood behind the counter, regarding Sirius with benign curiosity, one small hand extended to give him back the eight sickles and five knuts he’d spent on his drink. Sirius did not accept the money, instead running his hands through his hair and asking in a tight, quiet tone, “No Love Potion?”

Bryce shook their head, expression sympathetic as they replied sincerely, “Absolutely not. I would _never_ give someone any potion that would force them to do or feel something, least of all without their express consent.”

“But…” Sirius said.

“Forgive my directness, Mr Black,” Bryce went on, their voice quiet and almost conspiratorial. Their eyes flickered past Sirius to Remus again for an instant before returning, the penetrating gaze not entirely dissimilar from the one Sirius had often received from Dumbledore after performing some prank back in school, “But the drink I served you did not have anything in it that could have _created_ an experience of feeling. I had the sense that you might be confused or in denial about something, and your drink was designed to promote clarity. I’m afraid any new feeling you may be encountering is not, in fact, new at all, but existed long before you entered my shop. My special brew served only to bring it to your attention.”

Bryce watched a series of responses flicker across Sirius Black’s face—denial, desire, terror, giddiness, disbelief—but he only muttered to himself, “Bollocks…” and turned on his heel, stalking back to his and Remus’ table without accepting his refund. Bryce sorted the sickles and knuts back into the till and smiled inwardly to themself, allowing themself only a glance at the table where the two old friends sat. Sirius’ hands were crossed in his lap, feet tucked a bit awkwardly under his chair, his expression distinctly distracted as Remus was saying something between sips of chocolate. No revelations waited in Remus’ mug between flavor notes of bitter cocoa, golden sugar, aromatic spice, and rich cream, because Remus had known the truth of his heart for a very long time, without any urging from Bryce. It took no special skill to see that, the way Remus’ gaze lingered on Sirius’ face, the way he grew more animated by proximity to Sirius, the way he glowed when Sirius would laugh or smile at something he said, all that was proof enough.

Bryce hoped the two men could manage to make sense of things. As much as Bryce’s ability to discern the needs of their customers might have seemed a blessing, over the years it had also many times felt to them like a curse. It had often been more trouble than it was worth back at Hogwarts, before they had known that their ability was related to the Sight, but had already often felt like the tragically cursed Cassandra, doomed to watch their friends fumble their way through loves and friendships, school courses and later careers, heedless of their advice. And even nowadays, with _The Lucky Cup_ giving them the outlet to help people, for every spontaneous kiss, and marriage proposal, and overdue declaration of love, there were plenty of broken hearts, bad investments, and sundered friendships where customers had acted carelessly upon or resisted the revelations that Bryce served up to them in teacups.

Remus Lupin and his tempestuous friend didn’t linger long, leaving as lunchtime arrived and the stream of customers doubled, as it did most days. Many of them received food and drinks with no particularly magical qualities, unless you considered a perfect balance of flavor and a pleasantly well-fed belly to be a kind of magic, as Bryce did. Bryce knew quite well those nearly-magical attributes that could be and often were found in Muggle cooking, having grown up being over-fed at holiday parties by their mum’s wizarding family and their dad’s Muggle relations in equal measure. So it was that some patrons received perfectly satisfying Muggle fare, while others needed a little help. Some were fighting sicknesses as the colder months crept closer, and needed just a splash of Bryce’s spicy Pepper-Up Potion to give their immune systems a boost. Some were down-hearted, and needed the added cheer of sugar that glittered and changed colors. Some were overshadowed by anxieties, family responsibilities, or had stressful careers overtaxing them so that Bryce was inclined to garnish their sandwiches with valerian essence or dose their tea with Calming Draughts. And some, more than you’d like to believe, were like Sirius Black, and needed a nudge from Bryce in order to stop believing the lies they were telling themselves.

Although it was their calling, it could be tiring work. It put a strain on Bryce’s own mental fortitude to keep their third eye open enough to see the signs, to keep their imagination active in figuring out how to specialize each customer’s drink to their unique circumstantial needs. As the lunch rush finally eased to a moderate flow and then an occasional trickle of afternoon customers, Bryce made themself a simple cup of black tea to perk them up so that they would make it through the afternoon shift. With a couple tidy flicks of their wand, they summoned the various discarded dishes around the shop and enchanted the brush to scrub them clean. That done, steaming tea in hand, they seated themself on the stool by the sink and surveyed the people who sat around _The Lucky Cup_ as they rested their achey feet and caffeinated.

Their heart skipped a beat upon realizing that, amidst the commotion of the lunch customers, they had missed the reader coming in. The reader was the only name that Bryce had for the man who seemed to have eyes only for his precious books. To the right of the door, by the window full of plants, there was a squashy brown armchair that Bryce had come to think of as reserved for the reader, to the degree that it bothered them a bit whenever any other customer would seat themselves there. Though it wasn’t quite right to call the reader a customer, as he had not yet made a single purchase, despite having come in several times. He would come in, bashfully avoiding eye contact with Bryce, seat himself in the brown armchair, withdraw a book (a different one every time, Bryce had noted) from somewhere beneath his thin travelling cloak, tuck his chin into the chunky grey scarf around his neck and read with an intent focus that Bryce couldn’t help but find charming.

Truth be told, there wasn’t much about the mysterious wizard that Bryce Puck _didn’t_ find charming. Bryce had only ever seen him wear the same lightweight cloak and he was so undisruptive that Bryce was more than happy to allow him to escape the increasingly cold weather in _The Lucky Cup._ It didn’t hurt, of course, that the man was very nice to look at. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, although he was, with his soft-looking shock of wheat-blond hair and the soulful dark eyes behind his spectacles, sliding across the words on the page as gently as his expressive hands held the cover. It was not just the wide, honest smile that could sometimes be glimpsed peeking out from behind his scarf when he read through a particularly juicy bit of one of his books. He had a warm and tranquil air about him that Bryce found themself drawn to, so that they sometimes stared for maybe a little too long, hoping to catch one of the sweet, guilty glances the reader occasionally cast in Bryce’s direction.

Bryce finished their tea, all the while gazing perhaps a bit too intently in the reader’s direction. They gave the dregs of the tea leaves a practiced swirl and then overturned the cup onto its saucer. When the last of the tea had drained away, they carefully turned the cup over, peering down at the tea leaves. Tessomancy had never been their particular strength, but it had become a habit to check what the leaves had to say. They rotated the cup, recognizing the distinct shape of an animal’s silhouette along one wall of the cup. It appeared to be a seated cat, its tail curled near the bottom of the cup and its head near the rim. _An alert cat predicts deception, but a resting cat predicts domestic comfort. What’s a sitting cat? Deceptive comfort? Comforting deception?_ Bryce frowned, tessomancy had always struck them as one of the more frustratingly vague branches of Divination. _Well, it’s not on the bottom of the cup anyway, that’s good. _They tried to recall what a cat signified on the side of a cup, but it had been a long time since they’d perused their old Hogwarts texts to that extent, so they were forced to put the thought aside to contemplate later.

Rather unexpected storm clouds were gathering outside, darkening the sky and the road with that surprising speed which storms seemed to acquire in autumn and spring. Fewer people were coming in now, hurrying home rather than stopping for a stop of tea as they might have done, but it was just as well, since it was nearing closing time. Customers were cleverly casting _impervius _on their robes and bags in case the sky opened up before they reached their next destination. A short man asked Bryce rather tactlessly for directions to _Rosa Lee Teabag_, the sole other tea shop in Diagon Alley and after he had left, Bryce was sad to see the reader’s chair sitting empty. He must have slipped out while they were distracted.

They set about cleaning and closing up shop, a wave of their wand stacking all of the chairs upside down on the tabletops, a couple well-practiced _scourgify maxima_s scrubbing clean the floors and counters. They put away the cleaned dishes by hand, vanished the contents of the rubbish bin, locked the front door, and gathered the empty milk bottles for collecting. They snuffed the candles, fireplace, and Muggle fairy lights with another swish of their wand and wrapped themself in their cloak. If they were lucky, they might get to their flat before the rain.

With the tray of milk bottles clinking in hand, Bryce went out the side door of the shop, wincing at the damp cold wind that tugged through their cropped dark curls and stung their cheeks. The sun must be near setting, though the normal pinks and golds of sunset were obscured by the storm clouds overhead, pendulous and forbidding. Bryce put down the milk bottles where the dairy witch would come round to collect them in the wee hours. They were about to lock the door and Apparate home when a rattling sound underfoot surprised them. They looked down to find a cat, sniffing intently and hungrily around the empty milk bottles.

“Oh!” they exclaimed, a tickle of magical significance making the hair on the back of their neck stand up. They glanced around the small alley as if there would be some sign as to where the cat had come from, as if cats didn’t do precisely as they pleased. At the sound of Bryce’s voice, the cat looked up, and its gaze surprised them. The cat’s eyes were an unusually dark shade of brown, unlike the vivid yellows and greens that were more common among the felines that Bryce had known. Although a great lover of animals, Bryce had always been unfortunately rather allergic to cats, so they didn’t think much of it as they were hardly an expert, “Hi, kitty,” they cooed, their heart giving a twinge of pity as the cat’s little pink tongue hopefully licked up a drop of milk from the mouth of one of the bottles, “Don’t run away, please, kitty!” they whispered before hurrying back inside.

When they emerged with a saucer of cream, the sky had grown even darker but they were relieved to find the cat still there, sitting and waiting patiently. Cats were commonplace in Diagon Alley, but it was hard to believe it a coincidence that the cat sat in just the position that they had found in their tea leaves. Bryce placed the saucer gingerly in front of the cat and smiled at it encouragingly. It cocked its head, blinking its pretty brown eyes at Bryce before fluidly leaning down and beginning to drink. Bryce watched the cat, its little tongue making a strangely soothing sound as it lapped up the cream. The longer they watched, the more it seemed unfair to simply see the cat as an extension of the tea leaves; it was its own being, not an apparition or symbol of their fate. 

It was a rather darling cat, a cinnamon tabby with sweet little white paws, a white belly and chest, and a splash of white on its face. It looked a little underfed, but didn’t seem to be a stray, judging by the collar around its neck. It was a very nice piece of craftsmanship, soft maroon leather embossed with a pattern of twining leafy vines, and Bryce thought it odd that someone would put so fancy a collar on their cat only to let it muck about in the rain. Perhaps the poor dear was lost. The cat finished drinking the saucer of cream and licked its lips in satisfaction, “Is that better?” Bryce asked with a smile as they tapped the saucer with their wand, sending it back into the sink inside the locked shop.

Just then, there was a crash of thunder, making Bryce and the cat both jump. The cat’s ears flattened against its head as fat, cold drops of rain began splashing one by one around them. The cat gave Bryce a very pathetic look and Bryce’s will failed them, “Oh, alright,” they said, as if answering a verbal line of questioning from the cat, “C’mere and I’ll take you home with me,” they crouched down and extended their hand and the cat toddled over at once, “But it’s just for tonight,” Bryce said, as they scooped up the cat with one arm, noticing with a smile that it had begun purring. They twisted on their heel and Apparated, rematerializing in the dry warmth of their flat.

“Home, sweet home,” they remarked to the cat as they gently placed it on the ground, “I’ll make you up a little bed, doesn’t that sound nice?” The cat was still purring as Bryce left the room, sniffing curiously at the leg of an end table. They fetched an old box and a soft, worn blanket from the linen closet, folding up the blanket invitingly in the box and placing it on the floor in the bedroom. They whistled low, beckoning the cat gently, smiling at the cute sound of its little paws pitty-pattering in the hall, “Here’s your bed, see?” they explained, drawing the cat’s attention to the box, “I’m going to wash up, but make yourself comfortable.” They let the cat sniff their hand and gave it a brief scritch behind the ears before grabbing their dressing robe and going off for a hot shower. They returned from the washroom a little while later, rain drumming against the roof and walls, and didn’t know why they were surprised to find the cat curled up in a ball, sound asleep in the middle of their pillow.

#### II. Steep

On the other end of London, some hours later, sleep still eluded Sirius Black. It seemed to him like a waste of a nice rainy night. Normally, the sound of the rain was his favorite lullaby, but tonight it rather set his teeth on edge. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t actually the rain that was to blame, but the newly-unearthed contents of his heart, which made everything seem jarring and a bit off-kilter.

Moony was _his best friend._ He was his _friend_, and he’d die for him, and that was the measure of it. End of story.

Not that it bore comparison, but as he was lying awake dwelling on matters of friendship, it warranted distinction. Prongs was his brother, his other half, his partner in crime, and Moony was his best friend. That was how it always had been. Prongs was effortlessly on the same wavelength with him, recklessly brave, playful, sometimes tactless, but noble if you got right down to it. Heroic when given the chance, kind where it counted most. They’d always worked together as seamlessly as a gifted Quidditch player (which it just so happened they both were) and a top-notch broomstick. Prongs implicitly understood the way Sirius thought, the things that made Sirius laugh, the things that made Sirius’ valiant Gryffindor-red heart beat faster and harder with that powerful drive to Make Things Right.

Moony was different, but that had always been at the heart of Moony’s charm. Where Sirius was reckless, Remus was cautious, his lycanthropy having required him from an early age to be mindful of how his actions affected others, requiring him to be responsible beyond his years. Moony shied away from the spotlight that Sirius and James sought after, having perfected the art from a young age of not attracting too much attention, of seeming mild and unremarkable and not worth considering too closely. Had that misdirection somehow worked on Sirius, too, so that he had overlooked Remus, taking his closeness for granted without considering that maybe he wanted more from it than the best friendship that was there? 

No, that didn’t seem right. Sirius had never been fooled by Remus’ under-the-radar act, had admired him for years for his brilliance, his acerbic humor, his endless loyalty, his deeply caring heart, and most of all, his unflagging strength of body and spirit in the face of the undeniably rubbish hand that life had dealt him. That was the thing that made Sirius’ bond with Remus unique from his bond with James. Although in the surface matters of _personality_ and _interests_ he was much more like James, there was a string of rotten luck that wound him and Remus together and to which the unbelievably lucky and sheltered James could not relate. Before Hogwarts, James had swooped ‘round on a child sized broom on his parents’ country estate, cheered on by them and encouraged, loved without conditions, nurtured without limits. At the same age, little Remus had been isolated from other children, dragged to quack doctors and specialists, ever dreading his helplessness to the inevitable waxing of the moon, and bemoaning his father’s shame. At the same age, nail-bitten little Sirius had faced his parents’ unyielding Pureblood propaganda and the brutality with which they enforced the frigid, rigid manner of a little prince, determined to quash every single thing that made him himself. The scars of those childhood traumas ran deep, had sometimes opened up and bled and had begotten new scars over the years, and though James always sympathized with his friends’ struggles, wanted dearly to protect them and help them, he could never empathize with them as they could with one another.

If anything, maybe that was what had kept Sirius oblivious for all these years. Any time that he had felt unusually possessive or protective of Remus, any time they had shared uncharacteristic vulnerability, tears and nightmares and fears, any time he had looked at Remus and felt his heart puff up in his chest, he’d attributed it all to that special bond, never thinking it might be more than especially intense comradery. It seemed idiotic now, as denial always did in hindsight. Of course, it wasn’t as if it had been wrong, Remus _was_ his best mate. It just turned out he was also the object of his affections, and now that he’d noticed it, there was no hope of un-noticing it.

And why _wouldn’t_ he love Remus? Was it really so mad for that admiration, that fierce bond of pack-mates, that deeply entwined mutual understanding to expand and encompass this other kind of love that he’d somehow ignored? Was it so different, really, to realize now that he did not only want to hold Remus when the thorny realities of his life brought him to tears, but that he wanted to kiss those tears away? Was it so terribly different to want to have his hand held, not only when he had had a nightmare, but in broad daylight, when they were all smiles? And the point that was surely never going to allow him to sleep again, was it really that mad for him to hope that perhaps Remus might allow, or welcome, or Sweet Merlin, _want_ the things that Sirius had found himself wanting?

His stomach squirmed and rolled at the thought, and he kicked off his covers. He had a long night ahead of him and all of it was that bloody Bryce Puck’s fault. He’d been perfectly content to live in his ignorance, and now the truth had doomed him to a long sleepless existence.

#### III. Extract

When morning came, the world seemed washed clean by the downpour. It was colder than the day before and the rain had knocked many of the changing leaves from the trees. Bryce desperately wished that they did not have to get out of bed, but alas, cafés were not known to open themselves, not even the Wizarding kind. Bryce opened their eyes, blinked once at the small indentation in the pillow before them, the few fine white strands of fur only just registering with their brain before they sneezed. They sneezed several times, scolding themself internally for letting a cat into their flat when they knew what dander did to them. When they felt somewhat confident that they were finished sneezing, they tried coaxing the cat but it did not appear. They got out of bed, wandering around the small flat, peeking into closets and under furniture, but finally having to admit the cat was gone. All of the doors and windows were shut tight, so it was a bit of a mystery how the cat could have disappeared, but Bryce tried to put it out of their mind, endeavoring to ignore the oddly hollow disappointment they felt at waking alone. They went about their business getting ready for another day at _The Lucky Cup._

Around the same time, Sirius discovered that he had in fact managed to fall asleep. He learned this in the most miserable of ways, when it was his misfortune to be _woken up_. It took him a couple of grumpy, groaning minutes to figure out that the noise that had disturbed his slumber was the sound of James’ voice, coming from the Two-Way Mirror on his nightstand, repeating his name with growing impatience, “Sirius. _Oi, Sirius!_ Sirius Black! Yoo-hoo, Sirius ruddy Black, _are you deaf, mate_? _SIRIUS._”

Sirius fumbled to grab it from the table, holding it vaguely near his face and not bothering to open his eyes as he grumbled, “Piss off, Prongs, need t’sleep.”

“Tough luck, mate,” James said, sounding unapologetic and obscenely perky for the early hour, “We’ve got full moon logistics to plan, and Lils has the rest of my day booked with preparations for our _nuptials,_” he said the last bit with a nauseatingly unironic formality that elicited a sustained groan from Sirius.

“What’s there to plan anyway?” he asked grumpily, sitting up and rubbing the sleepiness from his face with little success, considering he’d been awake until only an hour or two before, consumed with thoughts of the werewolf in question, “Aren’t we going to meet at Moony’s as usual and Apparate together to one of the woodsy places we’ve used before?”

“Well, yes,” James admitted, and Sirius stretched his arms over his head before grabbing the mirror from the nightstand and glaring at James’ sheepish expression.

“_Yes_?” Sirius scowled, “Yes, as in you’ve just woken me up for no bloody reason?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” James said and even through bleary eyes, Sirius recognized that James was steeling himself to say something.

“Spit it out, mate,” he encouraged, standing up and padding into the kitchen. He propped up the mirror on the counter and reached for the coffee, but then thought better of it. After the previous day’s revelations, he opted for tea instead.

“Moony said I should talk to you,” Prongs admitted, as a tap from Sirius’ wand made the kettle whistle.

“Did he?” Sirius asked, schooling his expression to impassivity as he poured the water over a tea bag. As he dunked it idly in the water, he met James’ eyes through the mirror, “What about?”

“To tell you the truth, he didn’t seem entirely certain,” James shrugged, but his eyes were studying Sirius carefully from behind his spectacles, “He said you were behaving oddly yesterday, seemed to think there might be something going on.”

“Nothing’s _going on_,” Sirius said, a bit irritably, as he relocated both to the couch, pushing some books out of the way and easing his tired body down onto the cushions, “I just behave oddly, you know this about me, Prongs. I’m an odd bloke.”

“You’re a shit liar, too,” James countered shrewdly.

“Nonsense,” Sirius disagreed, “We would have had twice as many detentions in school without my masterful dissembling!”

James snorted, “No, we would have had _half_ as many detentions if you’d ever shut up and let Moony do the talking,” James’ expression grew shrewd again, “_He’s_ always been the one who was good at lying—reckon he’s had to be, of course—_which is why,_” James smirked a little in pride at bringing them back around to the topic at hand, “He’s so good at seeing through horseshit from other people, _which is why_, I imagine, he could tell you were acting odder than usual yesterday.”

“Merlin, you don’t have to be so bloody proud of yourself,” Sirius muttered into his mug before having a sip of tea.

“So... something is going on?” James prompted.

Sirius kept his sip slow, trying to organize his sleepless thoughts into something reasonable that he could say to James. He knew James’ love was unconditional (his parents had passed on that gift to him), he’d been supportive back at school when Sirius had come out of the closet to him, and that one time when Moony had been seeing a bloke (Sirius made a mental note to kick himself for not realizing his dislike of the guy had probably been born of jealousy) it hadn’t fazed James one bit. But this was more than a matter of orientation, this was _Moony_. It was unwritten Marauder law that James and Sirius were sworn to protect Moony from a world that was none too kind to werewolves. Moony may well be off limits in James’ estimation of things, and as it was, Sirius had hardly talked himself out of seeing things that way. Even if by some miracle Remus was interested in him, too, was it really worth risking bollocksing up the rock solid friendship that had for so long served as the true North of his internal compass?

“Pads,” James said, a little more gently, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” Sirius said, putting down his tea and scraping his hand through his hair, “Just couldn’t sleep last night is all.”

“But it was raining,” James cocked his head curiously, and Sirius almost wished James didn’t know him so bloody well.

“Yeah,” Sirius said, “I just couldn’t stop _thinking_.”

“Oh, something is _definitely_ going on,” James said, and though the you-don’t-usually-think joke was an old favorite, his eyes were round with genuine concern, “You do know you can tell me anything, mate? What’s depriving our Padfoot of his beauty sleep?”

Sirius sighed, giving in to James’ persistence as he knew he would, “So, Remus took me to that tea shop yesterday—”

“Puck’s?” James interjected.

“Yeah,” Sirius confirmed.

“‘Bout time, he’s been talking it up for ages,” James said, “So did it live up to the hype? Is their hot chocolate truly ‘a transcendent flavor journey on par with orgasm’ or is that just Moony’s chocolate fetish talking?”

Sirius snorted a laugh, though in truth the very suggestion of Moony’s fetishes was threatening to alter his blood-flow. He rushed to get on with his explanation, “Well, I didn’t have hot chocolate,” he explained, “That’s the whole bloody contrivance of the place. You don’t order off a menu, the owner—that’s Puck—just gives you something and they’ll refund you if aren’t satisfied, but basically I guess everyone usually is.”

James rolled his eyes, “Merlin, tell me you didn’t make a scene about returning a drink.”

“Well, I nearly did!” Sirius said, defensive at being predictable, “I thought they’d slipped me a Lo— some kind of potion!”

“That sounds like it might be sorta the point, you wanker,” Prongs countered loftily.

“No, but I—” Sirius was hesitant to admit what he’d thought, “It made me _feel_ things.”

“Oh, Merlin’s shit,” James shook his head slowly, eyes wide with disbelief, “You mean that wasn’t a figure of speech? Remus wasn’t _exaggerating_? It’s truly a sex thing? No wonder that place is so—”

“It’s not a sex thing!” Sirius cut in shrilly.

“You sound pretty guilty to meee,” James teased.

“Ugh, no, that’s not what I meant,” Sirius backtracked, stringing his words together slowly and staring into his tea, “When I said it made me _feel _things, I didn’t mean like physical sexual-type things,” he swallowed around the lump in his throat, “I mean like… emotional-type things.”

James was quiet for a moment and Sirius glanced back at the mirror to make sure the connection hadn’t been broken. James was watching him seriously, brow furrowed somewhat, “The drink made you feel emotional-type things,” he said, a little flatly. Sirius nodded, and James went on, “Like… it made you… happy because it was so tasty?” Sirius shook his head, “Or… more like a potion would?”

“Like a potion,” Sirius agreed.

“D’you reckon that’s why you couldn’t sleep?” James asked, “Maybe you’re still feeling the effects of it.”

Sirius smiled a bit grimly to himself, “Oh, I definitely am.”

“Right,” James was quiet a moment as he considered that, and then he asked, “So, what did it make you feel, anyway?”

Sirius took another sip of tea to keep from chewing his lip, knowing that James would recognize that tic from him and likely read into it. He thought about the sudden urges he’d had at _The Lucky Cup_ as he drank his coffee, to touch Remus’ hair and hands, to kiss him and Apparate them away somewhere amorous and softly lit, “Impulsive,” he answered obliquely, “It made me feel impulsive.”

“Mate, you’re always impulsive,” James pointed out, pushing his glasses up his nose a little, “C’mon, you can tell me.”

“It’s mental,” Sirius prefaced, James nodded but waited for him to go on, “But it…” he took another sip of tea, “Er, it made me see Moony sort of differently.”

Instantly, James’ expression grew stern, “Differently, how?”

“Not in a bad way!” Sirius insisted, feeling his cheeks growing warm under Prongs’ scrutiny, “Just like… just like perhaps I would… just that he’s quite…” 

“_Merlin,_ it’s about bloody time, Padfoot!” James burst out.

“What?” Sirius was confused by the sudden shift in his best mate, who was now grinning at him.

“I’ve had a suspicion since school, but you never did anything about it,” James noticed Sirius gawping at him and clarified, “You are saying you fancy him, right? I haven’t just put my foot in it, have I?”

“You’ve ‘_had a suspicion’_ that I fancied Remus since school and you _never thought to mention it?!_” Sirius spat out, affronted.

“Well, I thought if I was wrong, it’d only make you act like a cagey git, and if I was right you were bound to work it out for yourself eventually,” Prongs shrugged, “I didn’t want to meddle.”

“Smashing, so instead I walked around like an idiot until some _bloody meddling Ravenclaw_ gave me a coffee that made me realize ‘_oh golly, quite the fit werewolf, innit? Rather’d like to jump his bones_!’” Sirius realized only as he said it quite how much of his distress came from _sheer embarrassment_.

“Pretty sure Bryce Puck was in Hufflepuff, actually,” James pointed out mildly, as if that had any helpful bearing on anything. Very suddenly, his demeanor shifted and he again was prickly and stern, his tone challenging as he demanded, “This isn’t going to be a _problem_, is it, Sirius? Because it’s in _no way_ Remus’ fault that you fancy him, nor that it took you nigh on a decade to figure it out, and if you’re thinking of doing anything stupid like not showing up tonight just because your ego’s bru--”

“I would _never_,” Sirius denied fiercely, offended that James would even consider it possible, “To hell with my ego, Remus needs Padfoot when he changes, I can’t believe you’d even—”

“I know, sorry, I do,” James appeased, “You’re right, of course, I know better.”

“You ought to, yeah,” Sirius said, still a bit offended, “I would never abandon Remus. This doesn’t change anything.”

James hummed thoughtfully, regarding him. “You’re not going to like this,” he said, after a moment, “But I really think you ought to talk to him about it.”

“You’re right, I don’t like that,” Sirius said, draining the last of his tea.

“I just reckon that maybe he—” James stopped talking, his head turning as if hearing something in his environment beyond the view of the mirror, “Sorry, Pads, that’s Lily. I gotta go.”

“Right, right,” Sirius waved him off, trying not to sound too sour. He didn’t even dislike Lily, not like he had in school when he had totally failed to see the appeal that the swotty, headstrong redhead had for Prongs. She’d grown on him immensely, and really there was no denying she was a great bird, an honorary Marauder in her own right. Sirius just chafed at the change she symbolized, the move into being proper adults who fretted about weddings and buying homes and before too long, he reckoned, baby names.

“Chin up, mate,” James said, flashing him that pumpkin grin that had won Sirius over on the Hogwarts Express ages ago, “Padfoot gets to run tonight!”

“Til then, Prongs,” Sirius said, with a smile, watching as James winked and then disappeared so that the mirror reflected only his own face. He considered his own reflection, the bags under his eyes and the none-too-convincing smile on his lips. He swore to himself, pushed his hair out of his face, and wondered if it was worth trying to go back to sleep when his mind was now back in the swing of worrying. It was as if his brain wanted to make up for lost time and squeeze years and years of pining into one day. As he often did when his human brain got to be too much, Sirius pulled on the dogskin. Smells became stronger and more complex, just as colors bled into the vague muddy blues, greys, and browns that made up Padfoot’s world. All the complicated anxiety about Remus narrowed down and crystalized, leaving Sirius’ doggy heart wishing simply that Remus was here, that he could bring some comfort to the werewolf’s tense aching body, ease the pain of the coming moon and see Remus’ tight, appreciative smile as he scratched the thick fur behind Padfoot’s ears. He huffed a breath and curled up on the couch, drowsy and full of longing.

#### IV. Brew 

It was weather like this that made Samson dearly wish that his Animagus form could have been something a little bit woolier than a cat. A sheep, maybe, or a great hairy elk. Admittedly, that would have been a far stranger sight, trotting along the streets of Diagon Alley, but wizarding folk were used to a great many strange things and surely they could learn to live with it. Alas, there was no influencing what form one’s inner animal took, and truth be told, Samson really wouldn’t have changed it. As the Muggle film his mum had taken him to see once—before they’d had any idea a world of magic existed—had presupposed, everybody wants to be a cat.

Hardly anyone even noticed the small orange and white form weaving between boots and cloak-hems. It was fairly early still, but there were plenty of people already hurrying about their business. The crowd thinned when Samson veered off of the main thoroughfare onto one of the more ragged side streets, and another couple of turns brought him onto a muddy little un-cobbled road empty but for a wizened hag experimentally prodding the pumpkins in her grey little garden. Samson slipped easily back into his human form, straightening his spectacles and adjusting the folds of his time-worn cloak. Without looking up, she rasped the greeting, “Hullo, Mr Bast,”

“Good morning, Mrs Lachlan,” Samson greeted amiably, “Your pumpkins are coming along splendidly, I see.”

At that the hag turned, favoring Samson with a rare, jagged-toothed smile. She was as ugly as all hags infamously were, but she was very kind. She’d invited Samson in for tea on a few occasions, in a little kitchenette that showed no signs of ever having been used to prepare a child for supper. Naturally that was just a bigoted rumor, mainstream wizarding cultures painting the Other with that same unflattering brush as usual. They had sat in her little two-room house and he’d been surprised by their conversations. He had expected to find her distrusting of a wizard like himself, when it was his kind’s intolerance that forced people like her to live away from the main road in drafty little shacks, but as marginalized Beings often did, she had surprised him by treating him with nothing but warmth, “Thank you, lad,” she said, “Eggshells and Nourishing Draught,” she tapped her warty nose conspiratorially with one gnarled finger, “That’s the secret.”

“Ooh, thank you,” Samson said, genuinely appreciative of her trust. They shared another smile before he turned to hurry into the building with the sagging roof that neighbored her house. It was only marginally warmer inside, the sooty fire in the hearth throwing off only a little heat, but it was nonetheless a great relief to be inside. It smelled citrus-sweet from the orange wedges they often cut up for the kids and like the old, earthy smell of books, and just a little like moldy damp. Samson breathed it in as he drew his wand, muttering the familiar Warming Charms in the direction of each wall in sequence.

“Ah, that’s better!” a woman’s voice sighed appreciatively. A second later the owner of the voice appeared, peeking out from behind one of the mismatched sets of shelves, “There you are!” she chirped, her cheerful voice at odds with her weary features, as her gaze landed on him, “Good morning!”

“Good morning, Zinnia,” Samson replied, smiling at his plump, dark-haired friend, “What are you up to?”

“Wait till you see,” she grinned, and hefted a large cardboard box into his view.

“Blimey,” Samson said, taking a step closer and confirming that the box was, indeed, brimming with books, “Where did those come from?”

“Some old governess is retiring and her nephew brought ‘em in,” Zinnia’s amber eyes sparkled behind her glasses, echoing the color of the leather band at her throat, “All the standard schoolbooks, Muggle and magic, and a good deal of novels and biographies and all kinds of things!”

Samson grinned at the thought of more educational material to go around. He settled in beside Zinnia, going through the box and cataloguing the contents. Some of them were a little worse for wear, with Spell-O-Taped spines or water stains, and they were mostly older editions, but it was a huge windfall for them. 

‘_Them’_ referred to _The Open Mind Free Library_. 

It was a resource Samson wished he had had when he was younger, in particular when he had been forced to forgo his final year at Hogwarts to stay home and care for his mum. She had already been in poor health when she had had the bad luck to be bitten by a werewolf and infected. Many Muggles did not so much as survive their bite or their first moon, but she was a trooper. Nonetheless, the monthly transformations were brutal on her in those early years, and though he never begrudged his decision to stay home and care for her, he had desperately wanted to continue his studies. However, his will to learn skewed away from the standard academic canon after witnessing the small-minded bigotry his mother’s condition inspired. His mum’s lycanthropy opened his eyes to an entire disenfranchised underbelly to wizarding society that even a ‘Mudblood’ like himself had been fairly sheltered from. He was disgusted with himself for a time, when he realized how he had overlooked the stories of Squibs, Werewolves, Vampires, and Hags, forced to live on the fringes of society, and Veelas, House-Elves, and Goblins valued by wizards only transactionally, for their usefulness and their service. 

It was with a new sense of purpose on his shoulders, with a fire stoked behind his ribs to help the marginalized people of the magical world, that Samson happened to meet Zinnia while at the Ministry with his mum to renew her Registration. She, too, was a werewolf, having been home from Hogwarts for the summer when she was bitten at fourteen, and not daring to go back to school with so great a secret. When their paths crossed, she had already gathered together a band of like-minded misfits, a vampire named Logan, a Squib whose Pureblood parents had rather unfortunately named him Prometheus, an emancipated House-Elf named Bipsy, and an ill-tempered Veela named Bérengère who cut off all her silver hair every few days in protest against wizarding expectations. Their stances on politics varied, but every conversation they had about issues of equality for all members of the magical community always boiled down to one thing; access to education. This did not stop at wanting to see all magical Beings admitted to Hogwarts and other wizarding schools (though admission for all was a goal they hoped to one day reach), because of course the mainstream curriculum was itself far from perfect. Therefore, it was also a matter of improving the existing curriculum (which they had no power to do) or making accessible that which was and was not taught in Hogwarts’ hallowed halls.

And that was how the idea of _The Open Mind Free Library_ came about. They didn’t have the resources to properly start their own school, or to carry some widespread campaign for visibility and equal opportunities. But Theo (as Prometheus rather reasonably preferred to be called) had been given his family’s draftiest, least valuable piece of property and it wasn’t much of a house but it was situated just so in London, in the run-down little neighborhood that most third-string Beings were shunted to. First, they each brought in all of their own books, (Samson would never confess just how hard that had been for him, his books were some of his dearest friends and making them public property had not come easily to him) which filled a couple of shelves. Next came spreading the word that they were loaning out texts and accepting additions to their collection. They scoured second-hand stores and estate sales and library’s cast offs, and their collection grew and grew. 

Soon they had a regular crowd of people, young and old, magical and un-, who frequented their humble _Library._ Soon Logan was studying wandlore, determined to make wands for those who could not buy them from the first-rate establishments, and determined to keep them away from the often-dangerous black market ones available in Knockturn Alley. Soon Zinnia and Bipsy were teaching practical skills like sewing and cooking, and simple household charms to anyone who wanted to learn. Soon Samson and Bérengère were teaching history, and charms, basics of transfiguration and potions, self-defense and home protection. They helped raise funds and find aid for their members who fell ill, they introduced people who could help each other, they promoted trust and fraternity, and just like that, the crowd that they served stopped being a _crowd _and became a community.

It was hard work, and since they offered most of their services for free, the meager contents of the donations box didn’t go too far in terms of wages. Sometimes people would bring by food, but the people they were helping did not usually have much to give. There was room enough upstairs for them all to live, even if the sagged-in roof leaked dreadfully when there was rain or snow, and there was only the one bathroom shared by the six of them. Theo’s allowance from his pitying parents fed all of them some months, and he’d been known to cook up a lie of some sort to ask for more from them if it was needed. When possible, they would do odd jobs, though those were few and far between and many an employer had sacked Bérengère, Zinnia, or Logan and sent them on their way without so much as a knut upon discovering their employee was not human enough for them. What the _Library_ really needed was a generous donor or two, but they had no way of getting into the right circles to get the right people’s attention, so things went on much as they had been and sometimes there was only tea and toast and watery soup for days. 

So what, he was skint. Samson didn’t overly care most of the time, though he wouldn’t have minded a warmer cloak now that winter was coming on again. Being around good, modest, hard-working people all day was wonderful, and though initially parting with his books had been challenging, he had been more than rewarded by the books he had access to nowadays. The _Library’_s collection was rather remarkable, spanning wizarding and Muggle books alike, across all genres and time periods and degree of wear and tear. And he was steadily working his way through all of them. All in all, it was entirely worth the difficulty to him for the chance to start and end each day with a sense of having done the right thing.

He frowned to himself, unsure if last night he had done the right thing. He had meant nothing untoward by going home with Bryce Puck. It had been weak more than malevolent. But that might just be justification. After all, he’d been admiring the impishly handsome proprietor of _The Lucky Cup_ for months, wishing that he had the money to pay for one of those mysteriously insightful drinks, feeling guilty for taking up a seat that a paying customer might have used. And instead of introducing himself like a normal person, or perhaps even asking Puck on a date like a _brave_ person might have, he approached them instead as a pathetic, mewling alley cat! And when he’d woken this morning, he’d been so embarrassed that he’d done the unimaginably cowardly thing of slipping out while Puck slept, as if sneaking away from having to face a one night stand.

_All the embarrassment of a one night stand, _he chastised himself, _without getting even the night of clumsy, anonymous passion out of it._

“What are you scowling about, Samson?” Zinnia asked, pulling Samson from his thoughts. She was kneeling beside him on the floor by the large box of books, a worn tome on magical herbs in her hands. They were trembling slightly and he realized now how pale her face was, how incandescently bright her amber eyes were.

“Merlin, tonight’s the full moon!” he exclaimed, half scolding and half apologetic, “You should be resting!”

“Don’t fuss, I’m more than up to the task of sorting some books,” Zinnia insisted, tone a bit more snappish than it would get any other time of the month.

“Zinnia—” he began.

“I’m fine!” she sniped and then reminded, “And that’s no way to get out of telling me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Samson said, but she only cocked her head, obviously seeing through the fib, “Nothing, really,” he went on, admitting, “I just did something a bit dishonest yesterday and I’m feeling guilty about it.”

Zinnia frowned, considering this, “Dishonest doesn’t sound like you,” Samson shrugged and shelved the book in his hand, reaching for a very old copy of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_. Zinnia went on, “At any rate, I’m sure it would ease your mind to set things straight by telling the truth.”

Samson’s stomach lurched at the thought of approaching Bryce Puck at the counter in _The Lucky Cup_, somehow finding the nerve to say something along the lines of ‘_hi, you don’t know me, but I slept in your bed last night’._ He actually snorted a laugh at the absurdity of the idea, “Not happening,” he said simply.

“You’re blushing,” Zinnia observed, “And sorry to wolf at you, but I can _hear _your heart racing,” At that it raced faster and Samson looked helplessly at the light dawning on Zinnia’s moon-drab features. One corner of her lips curled up, “It was someone you _fancy_ and you were _dishonest_?” she grinned as he groaned, “My, this is like something out of one of those Muggle romance novels old lady Wickshire donated last spring!”

Samson thought of the guileless heroines and strapping lairds that populated those books, fondling under kilts by lochs and deluding themselves into thinking they were going to choose the sensible suitor over the pulse-quickening one. He rolled his eyes, forcing himself to be realistic and not wish it were perhaps a little more like that, “Don’t get too excited, Zin, it’s really not much like _My Devilish Scotsman_.”

“Damn,” Zinnia said, in mock disappointment that verged on the real thing, “Shame, that was a mighty sexy read. Think I might borrow it again to ease the post-moon blues...”

Samson grinned, relaxing a bit now that they were back in the familiar territory of Zinnia’s remarkable and often hilarious appetite for sexual fantasy, “You’d better,” he teased, “I’m sure the brooding Earl of Kincreag misses you.”

“Thank Merlin, it’s mutual then,” Zinnia gave a wink that was a bit closer to a twitch and they fell into a companionable silence as they continued sorting the books. Samson grinned when he came upon a book that had been missing from their collection, the fourth in a set of seven about a young man pitted against a great evil. He knew the kids would be happy to get their hands on it and deliberated for a moment before slipping it into his robes. It would only take him a day or two to read it, and then he’d share it. They went on sorting and were almost at the bottom of the box when they heard a _crack_ and two familiar voices.

“Morgana’s tits, Gère,” came Logan’s dark-velvet voice, “Would it kill you to warn me?” A derisive snort was Bérengère’s response, “Sorry, Morgana’s _brains_, is that better?”

“You are a brute and an _imbécile,_” Bérengère responded lightly, in her signature tone of superiority. Most of the time she was right.

“You wound me, Gère,” Logan teased, “How am I to go on if you think me an imbecile?”

“I ‘ave ‘eard enough of your voice now, _merci_,” Her words were cold but there was no missing the smile that curled warmly in her voice. Zinnia must have heard it, too, because she met Samson’s eyes significantly. It had been years now that Logan and Bérengère had circled each other and frankly, past time they did something about it.

The door opened and Logan appeared, very pallid above his dark cloak and the vibrant red of the leather collar he wore. His beard was tidy and his light hair pulled back from his face. He was carefully balancing a basket in his arms, using his back to push through the door. He nodded to Samson and Zinnia in greeting but in deference to Bérengère did not speak. He used one leg to hold the door ajar and Bérengère appeared, holding a similar basket in her slender, graceful arms. In contrast to the traditional, and in fact somewhat out-of-date dark brocades of Logan’s robes, she was resplendently rebellious in Muggle boots, loose-fitting olive green pants with many pockets, and a black leather jacket dotted with pins proclaiming an array of sociopolitical slogans. The silver fuzz of her shaved head was hidden by a chunky ochre-colored hat that she had knitted herself under Bipsy’s tutelage last winter, “‘Ello there,” she greeted, with none of the sparring vitriol that passed for flirtation between her and Logan, “We come bearing provisions!”

“You didn’t steal it, did you?” Samson asked uncertainly. Logan and Bérengère as a duo were the members of the bunch least likely to adhere to the law and if they had swiped the food it would not have been the first time.

“‘Ow could you suggest such a thing?” Bérengère said, depositing the basket on one of the rickety tables and crossing her arms, “Of course we did not steal it!” Logan said nothing and she punched his arm none-too-gently, “Tell zem!

“I thought you’d heard enough of my voice,” Logan pointed out, failing to keep a fanged grin off his face.

Bérengère rolled her beautiful aquamarine eyes, “Impossible man,” she muttered half to herself, before explaining, “Ze Muggle grocery ‘ad a failure of electricity and were selling cheaply ze things zat would spoil.”

“Bipsy’s upstairs, you’d better go tell her,” Zinnia said with a fond smile, “She’s going to be in ecstasy at having some real food to cook.”

As expected, Bipsy was thrilled to be presented with such a bounty, after the last few weeks of diluted vegetable soup and slightly moldy bread that had to be trimmed before it was toasted. She set to cooking straight away, a small but imposing general, ordering Samson to peel this and Zinnia to sautée that. Theo was off at one of his menial Muggle jobs, but the others went around the neighborhood letting everyone know that there would be a hot meal at the _Library_ today. It made for a very good, but very busy day. Though their ragtag community of Squibs and magical Beings were diverse, the one thing they all seemed to have in common was hunger. Without systematic respect and a foundation of useful skills, work was hard to come by, and without work, money for food was scarce. It was good on the rare occasion that they had enough food to help fill bellies that were too often left wanting.

By the time the sun was sinking and Zinnia left tremblingly to join Samson’s mum and a handful of other werewolves who had formed something of a pack, Samson was dreadfully tired. He helped Logan and Bipsy to clean up the kitchen and stow the few leftovers before dragging his feet to his bed, only to find it already occupied. A goblin named Agrik was curled up with her two children, sound asleep. Samson considered waking them for only a second, but he knew that Agrik was presently between living arrangements and he wasn’t about to send them out to sleep on the street on a cold night. As a cat, he could curl up just about anywhere and be comfortable, better that he not disturb them.

_Nowhere here will be as comfortable as Bryce Puck’s bed_, a sly little voice in his head reminded him and he felt his face flush at the thought. He had been determined to give _The Lucky Cup_ and its enticing owner a wide berth today and fortunately he’d been busy enough that he’d spent most of the time not thinking about it. But now the thought of Bryce’s quiet, warm, uncrowded flat was irresistible. The part of him that had been ashamed of his dishonesty all day yelled at him as he went for the door, wrapping his scarf tighter around his face as he braved the cold night air. He tried to quiet that voice by telling himself that he was going to come clean this time, that he was not going to misuse his Animagus form, but was going to be a man—literally.

#### V. Muddle

‘_The cat usually signifies treachery or deception,_’ Bryce read again, though their eyes ached with poring over the old textbook for too long, ‘_However, the shape of the cat near the handle or the top of the cup, in a distinguished resting position, may promise domestic comfort. If the leaves form the cat nearer to the middle of the cup, the subject is an honest person, perhaps one who speaks truths without heeding whether or not they are wanted.’ _Bryce scoffed. There was no denying that much was true of them. They read on, ‘_If the cat appears near the top of the teacup, it heralds a fresh start or new beginning in the subject’s future. It may indicate happiness in life without true satisfaction.’_

Bryce couldn’t help frowning a bit at the last bit. _Happiness without true satisfaction, _they thought a bit defensively, _what kind of distinction even is that?_ True satisfaction was a myth, wasn’t it, one of those happily-ever-after sort of things to strive for, even if it was unreachable? Wasn’t that sort of the human condition? They were happy. _The Lucky Cup_ made them happy, helping people made them happy. Their memory conjured up the strange hollow feeling of waking this morning to find the cat mysteriously gone. 

That hadn’t felt like happiness.

They heard a plaintive meow, and for a second were sure they had imagined it. There was another, accompanied this time by a little scratching at the door, and Bryce sprang to their feet, not caring when the Divination textbook fell to the floor with a thump. They opened the door and sure enough, there it was, the little cinnamon cat with the brown eyes that they might have thought they’d imagined if not for the way they kept sneezing, “Hello, my friend,” Bryce cooed, unable to keep the giddiness from their voice, crouching down to offer the cat their hand. It sniffed very briefly before gently nudging its face into Bryce’s palm. They chuckled, obediently scratching behind its ears before straightening up. They were going to invite the cat inside, but before they could it had scampered between their ankles in the direction of the bedroom, “Not on the pillow!” Bryce called, shutting the door and following their unexpected visitor into the bedroom.

To their surprise, the cat had heeded their request, curling up by the foot of the bed instead of on their pillow, “Thank you,” they said, bemusedly. Cats didn’t understand spoken English, did they? Bryce picked up the Divination textbook from where it had fallen, setting it on the nightstand before idly petting the cat again, pleased to feel the small soft body purring under their touch, “Are you hungry again?” They asked, and in answer, the cat just wriggled more snugly against the duvet, “Got your dinner elsewhere tonight, then. You want me only for my bed, I see.” The cat blinked its profound brown eyes at him slowly, and for some reason they slightly blushed. Probably it was their embarrassment catching up with them that a cat was their idea of a stimulating conversational partner.

They did not talk, just seated themself on the edge of the bed and stroked the cat contemplatively. They petted gently between the soft little ears, so delicate you could see the tiny veins. They scritched gently under the fancy leather collar, wondering again who had gone to the trouble of collaring a cat only to leave it out in the cold. They slid their palm slowly and repetitively down the smooth fur of the cat’s back. It didn’t matter a whit that their eyes were watering or their nose itching, the cat’s company was inexplicably soothing, a balm for an ache that they had scarcely noticed was even there at all. They continued petting the cat until it was sound asleep, curled up in a little ball and snoring incredibly softly, and their own eyelids weighed heavily. They crawled under the covers and extinguished the lights with a flick of their wand, yawning as they said to the cat softly, “Goodnight, love.” Seconds later, Bryce too was asleep.

#### VI. Sweeten

The first watery rays of dawn filtered through the trees and at last the wolf loosened its grip over Remus. He folded in on himself on the ground, shuddering as his spine shrank back to the length of a human’s and his paws split again into hands and feet. Sirius kept the dog on as he approached, watching the way the wolf’s fur shrank back into Remus’ skin, as if it simply hid beneath the pale, scar-strewn hide the rest of the month. Just like that, Remus was Remus again, body bent in a fetal comma with smudges of dirt and damp leaves stuck here and there on his pale, trembling nakedness. 

Prongs had already resolved back into the shape of James and was kneeling beside Remus. He produced Remus’ robes, stashed in his own before they’d changed the night prior. He lay a gentle hand on Remus’ shoulder, and Remus lifted his head. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than usual, a bruised-looking purple, but he offered James a flat, tight smile as he sat up gingerly. Sirius padded over to them and licked Remus’ cheek, his keen dog nose and tongue detecting the sweat-salt, and the complex soil-smells, and the wildness there. Remus chuckled fondly, hoarsely, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs.

At that, Sirius changed back into himself. Padfoot may be good for a laugh, but he couldn’t perform healing spells. As James helped Remus back into his trousers, Sirius trailed his wandtip over Remus’ abdomen. He did his best to ignore the way the touch made Remus’ stomach twitch, focusing instead on the detected bruised ribs and murmuring the well-practiced incantation that would heal them. He knew it had worked when Remus sighed and some of the tightness slipped from his shoulders.

A yawn distorted James’ words as he asked, “Alright, Moons?”

“‘M’alright,” Remus said, with another of those tight little smiles. They had always tugged at Sirius’ heart, but he wondered how he’d never noticed before how much he’d like to see if he could kiss them into real ones. Remus cleared his throat and tried to clap Prongs on the shoulder, though it came off more as something between a pat and a clumsy caress, “Get home to Lily, mate,” he said.

James’ face took on that wistful air it did whenever he remembered that he somehow had actually gotten lucky enough to call Lily his. He glanced at Sirius, “You’ve got this under control?” He asked the question lightly, but the brotherly bond between them carried the undercurrent of unease. 

Sirius was offended by the (undetectable to anyone else) implication that his newly discovered feelings for Remus might in any way prevent him from taking care of the werewolf as he always had in the past, “Of course, I have,” he assured James gamely, seeing in his brother’s eyes when he recognized the steely loyalty underlying Sirius’ words. Something in James’ expression softened a little, reassured, “Give my best to the future Mrs Prongs,” Sirius added lightly, as James got to his feet.

“I shall,” his gaze moved back to Remus and softened still more, and Sirius recognized that same ache to protect Moony that he’d carried around for years like some kind of grounding talisman, “Take care, Moony. If either of you need anything—”

“We know, Prongs,” Remus said lightly. James flashed his signature pumpkin grin and then disappeared with a _crack._ A breeze rustled through the leaves, already going brittle in the trees though it was early in the season, and Remus shivered, “Fuck, it’s bloody _cold_,” he complained, pulling his shirt, still unbuttoned, closed.

“Let me,” Sirius insisted, knowing how Remus’ jangling nerves impeded his fine motor skills following his transformations. He let his hands fall to his lap and Sirius leaned closer to do his buttons, taking extra care not to let his knuckles brush Remus’ bare skin beneath. It was all in his head, naturally, but it seemed as though the new awareness of his feelings might make that touch somehow more unwelcome, more disingenuous, “Right,” he said, wrapping Remus’ cloak around his shoulders, “Can you stand?”

Remus nodded, but all the same his grip on Sirius’ proffered arm was like a vice as he stood. Once standing, he swayed slightly and, change in feelings be damned, it was still the most natural thing in the world for Sirius to loop an arm around his back, to have Remus leaning against his side for stability. He felt the familiar canine urge to protect Remus in his teeth and involuntarily squeezed him. Remus glanced at him sidelong, “Alright, Pads?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius assured him. He scolded himself, knowing how Remus hated to be thought of as someone who _needed_ protecting. He could protect himself, he’d insist, and in fact, just about any other day of the month, his skill in defensive magic was formidable and all but unmatched. But on moon days, he needed Sirius, and though it made him feel a bit guilty, Sirius sort of cherished the feeling of being needed. He was about to Apparate them to Remus’ dingy flat when another gust of wind blew and Remus trembled like a leaf against his side, “Is your heating fixed yet?” he asked, sternly.

Remus shifted from one foot to the other, “Er, no,” he confessed.

“Useless Muggle contraption,” Sirius muttered, making the decision easily, “I’m taking you to mine.”

“Sirius—” Remus began to protest.

“Oh, save your breath,” he interrupted, “I’m not leaving you all pathetic and shivery in a cold flat.”

Remus opened his mouth to argue, but another shiver-inducing wind had him thinking better of it, and he stiffly nodded his acquiescence. Sirius held his flat in his mind and twisted, pulling them into the stifling press of Apparation. A half-second later, they were in his living room, Remus sagging even more heavily against his side and pressing his face into Sirius’ shoulder. Apparating wasn’t exactly comfortable even under the ideal circumstances and Sirius asked solicitously, “You okay?”

“Never better,” Remus said, a little thickly as if he had only narrowly avoided being sick on Sirius’ carpet.

Sirius turned to guide Remus to lay on the couch, only to curse his past self for not clearing it of a plate of crumbs and a few books. He wasn’t confident that Remus could stand on his own for the brief measure of time it would take to clear the detritus away, and he ignored the voice in his head warning him, telling him just to clear it with his wand. Instead, he guided Remus into his room and onto his bed. If this struck Remus as strange, he didn’t bother to show it, sinking bonelessly into the mattress with a pleased groan, the sound of which Sirius pretended didn’t send a flicker of heat down his spine, “Do you need anything?” he asked, glad that the angle obstructed his burning cheeks as he crouched to remove Remus’ shoes, “Healing potion? Tea?”

“_Nngh,_” Remus answered, shaking his head as Sirius freed the tangled blankets from under his legs and tucked them around him, “Jus’ sleep.”

“I’m here if you need me,” Sirius said, hearing the way his own voice went low and wistful as he looked down at Remus, already half-asleep. In repose he looked much younger, in a way that he hadn’t even when they’d met as children. His so often tense features seemed softer and somehow more innocent all relaxed in sleep, the shadows under his eyes violet against the copper-gold of his eyelashes. Of their own volition, Sirius’ fingers gently swept Remus’ tawny fringe from his forehead, soft despite the grit of dirt, product of the wolf running and playing in the woods all night. 

Sirius dragged himself away from Remus with some difficulty, moving on autopilot as he made himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. He sipped it distractedly, almost grateful at burning his tongue and giving himself something to think about other than Remus sweetly curled and safe in his bed. He wandered over to the couch and leafed through a book without managing to focus on a single word. He finished his tea as he rifled through his records with no intention of playing anything that might disturb Remus’ rest. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth for something to do, and then washed his face, leaning on the sink for a minute and considering his reflection. In an uncharacteristic flash of insecurity, Sirius pushed his graceful black hair off his handsome face and wondered idly what it was about him that did not attract Remus. That was a foolish line of thought, he knew it, and turned away from the mirror, abashed at his own train of thought. This was _Remus_ after all, high-minded and unsuperficial and well-acquainted with living in a body that was not what he wanted it to be; his affections were not fickle enough to be dictated by something like physical beauty, or lack thereof.

In the bedroom, Remus made a sound. Sirius was at the bedside in a flash, feeling a little foolish for the panic that gripped his heart. Remus was sleeping fitfully, his brow furrowed and his hands clutching at the bedclothes. Another sound, something like a whimper spilled from his lips and Sirius was possessed by an urge to draw him into his arms, to cradle him like a child and try to free him from the pain that dogged his days. He stood frozen to the spot for an instant, watching stupidly as his best mate struggled against some imagined obstacle, before he remembered himself. Scolding himself for his hesitation, for letting Remus suffer even a second longer than could be helped, Sirius steadied one knee on the bed and leaned over, shaking Remus’ shoulder gently, “Moony,” he said softly, “Moons, c’mon.”

Remus’ eyes shot open and he sucked in a gasp as he woke. Dilated pupils shrank so that the molten gold of the iris seemed to intensify, making Sirius’ heart stutter in his chest, “Pads?” Remus slurred, nonplussed.

“Sorry to wake you,” Sirius said, his words coming out stilted, his tone somehow too formal, “It’s only you appeared to be having a bad dream—”

“Pads,” Remus said again, fondness creasing the corners of his eyes. He still had that sleepy softness around the edges and Sirius couldn’t help smiling down at him. Remus lifted a hand to brush against Sirius’, still on his shoulder, and it was worrying to find it cold despite the blankets.

“You’re cold,” Sirius said, brows knitting together, closing his fingers around Remus’.

“You’re _warm_,” Remus countered, his tone emphatic and yet unreadable. He tugged on Sirius’ hand.

“Remus?” Sirius asked, confused by the gesture.

“Lay _down_, you dumb warm git,” Remus said, having woken up enough to imbue the words with some of his signature tartness. 

“Re—” Sirius started, trying to tug back his hand.

“Just stay with me, yeah?” Remus appealed, and the vulnerability in his voice had Sirius pushing his misgivings aside to crawl under the covers with Remus. He would never before have hesitated like that, and by now would have wrapped his arms companionably around Remus, but instead he lay there stiffly, unsure of how to seem normal, how not to overstep or give himself away. Remus didn’t miss the change and for a couple of minutes they lay in silence, Sirius looking determinedly at the seam of the pillowcase, knowing without looking that Remus was chewing his lip in thought. Remus shifted gingerly from laying on his side onto his back, before asking, “Sirius, is something wrong?” He was speaking in that familiar tone of his, canny and cautious, not wanting to risk coming off as accusatory.

Sirius shook his head, “Not wrong, no.”

“But there is… something, right?”

Sirius shrugged one shoulder, “Yeah. But don’t worry about it. You need to sleep after last night.”

“You…” Remus took a long pause as if second-guessing what he was saying. Sirius didn’t know if it was what he’d originally meant to say, but his voice was small as he asked, “You’ll stay?”

Sirius met Remus’ eyes at that and could have punched himself. Sirius’ opaque reassurance had not been enough to set Remus’ mind at ease, and it was apparent. His teeth were worrying at his bottom lip, just over the scar there and his brow was furrowed, bright eyes studying Sirius in concern. It had been a long time since he’d seen just that particular look on Remus’ features. It must have been at Hogwarts when he’d last seen it, the look Remus got when he felt that something was wrong in his little pack. It was the look he got when he feared he’d disappointed them somehow, or that they were bound to reject him, and it was like a kick to the guts, “Moony,” he tutted, putting his own confused tangle of longing aside and wrapping his arms around his friend, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Remus relaxed a little with the reassurance, melting gratefully into Sirius’ body warmth, feet cold against Sirius’ shins. He slung an arm around Sirius’ waist, nestling against him so that his cheek rested over Sirius’ heart, “Bloody moon,” he grumbled, “It’d be bad enough without making me all needy…”

“I like it,” Sirius said, wincing and quickly amending, “Don’t mind it, I mean! I don’t mind it!” Remus didn’t say anything, “Listen, I’m knackered. Let’s just sleep, alright?”

“Alright.” Remus agreed. Still a bit concerned about the coldness of the bony feet that tangled with his, Sirius cast a quick Warming Charm over the blankets—eliciting an approving sigh from Remus—before setting his wand on the nightstand. He let the warmth and the comforting weight of Remus in his arms, the steady huffs of his breathing, soothe him, only realizing as sleep pulled him under rather quickly just how tired he actually was after romping around in the moonlight and warring with his own mind.

#### VII. Stir

This time it did not come as a surprise to Bryce when they woke the next morning to find the cat gone. There was a pang of that same hollowness, but they tried to brush it aside as they went about their business. The cold snap meant a boost in customers in search of a mug of something hot, so the day had been going by in something of a blur, coffees and teas spiked with ginger, and Pepper-Up, and the special honeys Bryce kept on hand, made from the nectars of various magical blooms. 

No longer were they distressed by the mystery of _how_ the cat had left, but were snagged instead around the question of _why_ the cat had left. It had seemed to like them, after all, had purred at their touch, had come back a second night. It had seemed so completely at home curled up in their bed, and yet it had seen itself out somehow and _left_. What called it away? Was it enchanted somehow? 

Bryce told themself that that was vain. Nobody, cat or otherwise, needed to be under a curse to _resist _their company. Cats were their own masters, after all, surely the cat had its own feline agenda that was just as important to it as Bryce’s life was to them. They had wondered upon first finding the cat in the alley if it was _lost_, judging by its collar, but that couldn’t be. If it could come and go from their flat so easily, surely it could find its way back to any owner it had had, if it wanted to. _Lucky bastard_, Bryce thought, with a little spike of jealousy for whoever it was that the cat went home to, whoever had fastened that collar around its neck.

_Okay, that’s enough, _they told themself firmly, frowning at the frost glittering on the shop windowpanes. If this were their friend whinging about this to them, they wouldn’t have had patience with a bit of it. Perhaps it was time to give themself some of that tough love. If they were this invested in hanging out with a bloody _cat_, something was wrong. It spoke of a serious degree of loneliness and desperation. They told themselves what they would tell a friend in their shoes— forget the cat and try actually talking to a _person_.

_I talk to people_, a petulant voice in the back of their head chimed in defensively.

_Welcome to _The Lucky Cup_, here’s your drink, _and _thank you, come again soon_ didn’t count as actually talking to people, though, and true as it was, the reminder stung. No wonder their friends sometimes bristled at their honest advice, it turned out this sort of thing wasn’t very easy to hear. Of course, they were lonely. They had sort of known that, deep down, but the events of the last couple of days made it obvious. _Happiness without satisfaction_, Bryce thought, the words from their old Divination textbook dropping into their stomach like an unwelcome stone.

It wasn’t unlike the situations they had gotten themself into back at Hogwarts on a few occasions. They had gotten so caught up in spotting other people’s appetites, in brewing them solutions, they had neglected their own. It was so much easier to care for others, so much easier to know what other people needed. _What drink would I make myself, _they wondered, eyes flicking to _The Lucky Cup_’s entrance, _if I walked through that door right now?_

As if summoned by Bryce’s eyes, the door opened, the bells sang, and the reader appeared. His shock of wheat-blond hair was mussed by the wind and the tip of his nose was pink with cold. In the sudden warmth of the shop, his glasses fogged up and through them, his brown eyes caught with Bryce’s gaze. The reader shyly smiled in greeting, just the corners of it visible above his thick grey scarf. Bryce found themself grinning as the reader settled himself in his brown chair by the window, pulling a thick book from somewhere inside his robes. His fingers, gentle and sensitive as ever on the book’s covers and spine, were red with the cold to match his nose.

The decision crystalized in Bryce’s own hands before their brain caught up. They realized what they were doing as they were already nearly finished doctoring up the hot cocoa, splashing extra shaved chocolate, cinnamon, and Warming Draught into the mug. They’d chosen the blue one with the rows of little yellow ducks, a conversation piece in case they needed it. They finished it with a very generous dollop of vanilla whipped cream, and their hand hovered for a moment over the color-changing hundreds-and-thousands. They might well brighten the reader’s day, but Bryce opted to forgo them. It might be selfish, but they didn’t want to compete with the distraction. They took a steadying breath, picked up the mug, and marched over to the reader’s chair.

The reader glanced up at their approach, eyes widening at the sight. It was hard to tell if it was with surprise or closer to panic at being approached. He lowered his book, one finger keeping his place in the pages. Bryce held out the mug to the reader like an olive branch, “Here you are,” they said, brightly.

“Er, thank you so much,” the reader said, eyeing the drink longingly before looking up at Bryce’s face, contrite, “But I, erm, don’t have the money.”

“Nonsense,” Bryce said, unflinching, “It’s on the house.”

The reader’s brow furrowed and he blinked, “But, why?”

Bryce shrugged one shoulder, “You looked like you needed some warming up,” they extended the drink a little closer to the reader, appreciating the little blush that bloomed across his cheekbones, “It’s no trouble, please.”

The reader hesitated only a second more before setting his book aside, straightening his glasses, and accepting the drink, “Thank you,” he said, cradling the mug between both hands and taking a sip. His eyes shut as he did, and the expression of simple joy on his face made the butterflies in Bryce’s belly flutter. He smiled at Bryce sweetly and extended a hand, “I’m Samson Bast, by the way.”

_Samson Bast_. The words echoed back through Bryce’s head, attaching to every memory of the handsome man they’d thought of only as ‘the reader’ until now, “Samson Bast,” they repeated and the name fit pleasantly in their mouth as they shook the man’s hand, “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Samson said, with an apologetic little grimace, “Bad enough I was coming in and sponging off you, least I might have done was introduce myself.”

Bryce dismissed that with a wave of their hand, “So, what are you reading?” They asked conversationally as Samson took another gulp of hot cocoa.

Samson smiled as if about to share an enthralling secret, handing the book over to Bryce, “It’s rather a lot to explain, to tell you the truth,” he admitted. Bryce studied the red and blue cover, the dynamic illustration of a boy on a broom narrowing dodging the fire spouting from a dragon’s mouth, “It’s the fourth in a series.”

Bryce leafed through the pages, “What kind of story is it?”

“It’s speculative fiction, a future dystopia, sort of,” Samson explained, eyes brightening at Bryce’s curiosity, “Set in a future of wizarding Britain where this Dark wizard has made a mess of things, a whole war, left the protagonist orphaned and destined to challenge him.”

“Blimey,” Bryce said, handing the book back, “So, what happens in the first three books to land this poor chap on his broom against a dragon?”

Samson took another sip of his cocoa and then launched into an enthusiastic retelling. Bryce found themself grateful that no customers were coming in because hearing Samson tell the story was utterly captivating. Once he got going, he was positively shining, leaving Bryce basking in the glow of him as he spun a story of bravery, and friendship, and goodness conquering the mysterious web of evil. They reckoned they might enjoy the books, but not half as much as they enjoyed hearing Samson tell it.

#### VIII. Taste

Caught up in the highs and lows of telling the story that had so engrossed him, with Bryce Puck’s eyes trained on him, riveted, and the taste of the delicious hot chocolate in his mouth, Samson felt _brilliant_. For the first time since the autumn chill had blown in, he felt completely warm. In spirit as well as in body, though the warmth that reached even his fingers and toes hadn’t lost its novelty.

He had finally reached the point in recounting the events of the third book when things came to a head, when mysteries began to unravel and secrets of the past were revealed. Bryce’s interest had seemed polite at first, but by this point they were on the edge of their seat, desperate to know how the terrifying escaped convict possibly had any business _embracing _the endearingly mischievous, sickly professor. To his own astonishment, Samson had actually grown a bit _too_ warm from some mix of the cocoa, his own animated storytelling, and the blush-making gaze of Bryce Puck. 

“So finally, they agree to do it together, both pointing their wands at the rat,” Samson said, unwinding his scarf from his neck and relishing the cool air where his skin had grown clammy with warmth, “And _flash!_ He’s been a man in disguise all along, since before the first book, he’s—”

“Your—” Bryce interrupted, lifting a hand and pointing vaguely at Samson, “Your neck, where did you—?” Bryce’s eyes narrowed, “Have you got a cat?”

Samson blinked uncomprehendingly for a second, before his hand flew to the leather collar at his neck, “I—”

“No!” Bryce’s eyes grew very round, “No, it’s like your story—! You _are_ the cat!”

Samson felt terribly exposed, all of a sudden, cursing himself for his thoughtlessness. Of _course_, Bryce would recognize the collar! It was so easy to entirely forget that it was there, just where it had been for a couple of years ever since Bérengère had cooked up the idea, something for each of the Librarians with a handy cocktail of protective charms and a Homing Charm to help find each other if need be, “I-I’m sorry,” Samson stammered, snatching up his things and flying out of his seat, shame burning his face as he hurried from the café.

After the close, fragrant warmth of _The Lucky Cup_, it seemed dreadfully cold outside. It felt somehow, oddly, like the chill was not quite able to reach him and even in the frenzy of his mortified mind, he realized that the drink Bryce had made him must have had a strong Warming Draught in it. It was a shame, he thought bitterly, that they hadn’t put anything in it to keep him from making a fool of himself. He cringed at the sound of Bryce’s voice calling for him to wait. He sped up, sure that he’d combust with the sheer humiliation of it if he were to face them, to see the confusion and disgust they must feel over the way he’d intruded into their home on false pretense.

“Wait!” Bryce’s voice was nearer now, and _Merlin’s whiskers_, why wasn’t he faster? Just as it dawned on Samson that instead of relying on his legs, he could just Apparate off to somewhere distant where he could privately nurse his ego, a small soft hand closed around his wrist. He spun around and _damn, _there they were, as dreadfully cute as ever, cheeks pink from the cold. Samson heard a desperate sort of whine that he supposed must have slipped from his own throat, trying to tug his hand from Bryce’s surprisingly strong grip. Bryce let go at once, holding their hands up at shoulder level in apology, “I’m sorry,” they said at once.

“_You’re_ sorry?” Samson said, his voice thin. His breath was labored slightly from the sprint, coming out in white puffs.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have grabbed you,” Bryce said, as if that was obviously the thing that was strange between them, “Shouldn’t have followed you, probably,” they admitted, mouth bending into a bashful sort of expression as they lifted those wide, sea-green eyes to meet Samson’s, “I just wanted to set things straight.”

“Set things straight?” Samson said, aware that he had to stop just repeating Bryce’s statements sometime, but unable to think what he’d say, not with Bryce’s beautiful eyes boring so intensely into his own.

“Yeah,” Bryce smiled like they might at a cagey wild animal, sort of like they had at Samson when they’d first met his Animagus form in the alley, “You seemed to think I’d be upset, and I’m not,” they seemed to be fighting to keep the smile from turning into a grin.

“But I deceived you!” Samson pointed out, imploring Bryce to be angry with him. Didn’t they realize how messed up this was?

Bryce gave a surprised laugh, “The tea leaves!” they said, more to themself than to him, clapping a disbelieving hand to their forehead, “How bloody cheeky of them!”

“What?” Samson cocked his head, utterly confused.

“Sorry,” Bryce said, shaking their head as if clearing their thoughts, “Yeah, I don’t mind,” they assured, getting back on track.

“But how could you _not mind?”_ Samson demanded, “I as good as broke into your home!”

“Hardly,” Bryce scoffed, “I invited you in.”

“But I _lied_ to you,” Samson threw up his hands, still toying with the idea of fleeing but feeling quite pinned by Bryce’s gaze.

“I know the truth now,” Bryce said, voice softening a bit with sincerity in a way that made something in Samson’s belly squirm. Bryce took a step closer, “To be honest with you, I’m relieved. I was a bit worried why I was so drawn to a bloody _cat_.”

“Merlin, I’m sorry,” Samson said again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I forgive you, how’s that?” Bryce was standing right in front of him now, the mist of their breath intermingling between their faces.

“But—”

“How about we try again from the start,” Bryce suggested, airily, “I’d love to make you dinner, perhaps something a bit nicer than a saucer of milk?”

Samson’s cheeks were burning hot now and it had nothing to do with any potion, “A-alright,” he stammered out, the part of him that had admired Bryce for months, that had been impressed by their kindness to a hungry cat, won out over the part of him that wanted to hide away forever with the shame of it all.

“Well, you know where I live,” Samson managed to keep his cringe at that from showing, “Come by around seven?” Samson nodded mutely, watching in amazement as Bryce beamed at that, “Great! I’ll make something chocolate for dessert, I reckon, and if you wanted to stay over I—_wait, shit, that sounds bloody presumptuous,_” to Samson’s amazement, a flush of embarrassment had creeped up Bryce’s neck that might rival even his own, “I-I only meant, I mean, well, you have done already, and having a cat around was very nice, even if I am rather allergic, actually, though, of course, if you wanted to stay over just as _yourself_ that would also be wonderful, er, I mean, _fine_! That would be fine, on the settee perhaps, or I mean, the bed, or—” Bryce shut their mouth tight as if the physical barrier of their lips was the only thing that could have interrupted their magnificently charming ramble, “Oh, hell,” they murmured, peering up into Samson’s face through the fog their breath made, wrapping between them and around them like some ancient charm, “Can I kiss you?”

Samson was leaning forward before he even thought to nod his assent, and a second later Bryce was on tiptoe, their small hands unbelievably soft against Samson’s cheeks, their lips meeting his. It was a brief kiss, little more than a gentle press of lips, but to Samson it tasted revelatory. His hands landed tentatively on Bryce’s waist and he felt his heart skip in his chest at the feel of Bryce’s smile against his lips. Bryce lowered back onto their heels and Samson’s eyes opened to find his own grin mirrored back at him. For a couple seconds they just stood there, Bryce holding Samson’s face and Samson holding Bryce’s waist, beaming at each other like loons. Then Bryce’s eyebrows shot up and they glanced over their shoulder, as if they’d only just remembered the café they had left unattended rushing out into the street. Their hands fell from Samson’s face, gesturing with one towards _The Lucky Cup_, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”

“Yeah,” Samson said, still breathless and smiling.

“I’ll see you around seven?” Bryce said, as they took a couple reluctant steps backward. Samson nodded emphatically and Bryce shot him one more grin before turning and hurrying back toward the café. As Samson watched them go, he couldn’t have said if it was the after effects of the potion or the kiss that left him impervious to the cold.

#### IX. Blend

Remus was aware of the post-moon ache in his body before anything else, weighing heavy in his head and limbs. It registered that the bed he was in was much softer than his own lumpy mattress, the room much warmer than his own drafty, dingy flat. The bedding smelled clean, like soap and vaguely like lemon, and Sirius smelled like he always did, spicy-warm like cloves or bourbon, comforting-safe like fresh buttery bread, mysterious-wild like starlit wind through old trees. He could feel Sirius’ eyes on him as surely as if it had been a physical touch, and it was that more than anything that compelled him to open his eyes.

Judging by the light from the window, it was afternoon, nearly evening. It was pointless to note that Sirius looked gorgeous in this light because since he had been about fourteen he’d had the bloody _gall_ to look gorgeous in every light. He was propped on one arm, fingers buried in his inky hair, falling in a graceful tumble over his shoulders, one tendril just brushing across a knife-sharp cheekbone. His storm-grey eyes flashed slightly at seeing Remus’ eyes open, elegant crow-wing brows pitching up just slightly in concern, “Moony,” he said, immediately, voice hoarse from disuse and somehow even that made Remus ache with the beauty of it. Sirius cleared his throat, “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Remus said, stretching slightly to test the tightness of his muscles, the friction in his joints, careful not to let an elbow or toe so much as brush Sirius under the covers. Sirius’ expression remained concerned, and Remus elaborated, “Truly, Pads, I’m just a little stiff.”

“You should get some more rest,” Sirius urged, brushing a lock of hair from Remus’ brow and then wincing, pulling his hand back as though burned. He looked studiously away from Remus’ face.

Something was going on with him and it carved out Remus’ ribcage, slicing deftly through his feeling of being home. Sirius had started behaving strangely the day before the moon and it stood to reason that Remus’ secret had finally caught up with him. Their friendship had survived the revelation of his lycanthropy at age twelve and he’d always hoped that when the truth of his feelings for Sirius was revealed, that somehow Sirius would manage to take it in stride. He’d never kidded himself that he’d get over it or that he’d be able to conceal it forever, but he had hoped that their cherished friendship would survive. But Sirius had obviously finally pieced it together, and it was agony the way he didn’t know how to be around him, how much to touch or not touch him, how to hold his gaze, how to just be his mate as he always had. Remus had made peace with that, grateful for his friendship, determined to be satisfied by his friendship, but watching the first signs of it fading was torture, “Sirius,” he said, trying to find the courage to just address it.

“I should probably go,” Sirius said suddenly, sitting up.

“This is your flat,” Remus pointed out, “Your _bed_. If anyone should go, it’s me.”

Sirius whirled to look at him so fast that his hair swung around and hit his own face, a couple strands sticking to his lips, “Nonsense,” he said, “You need to rest.”

“I can rest at home just as well as here,” Remus lied, sitting up despite how his body protested.

“Horseshit,” Sirius dismissed, “Besides, I like having you here,” he insisted.

Remus blinked at him, examining his expression as he sank obediently back against the pillows. He still wasn’t quite meeting his eyes, but the care on his brow seemed real and Remus’ sensitive hearing could tell his heart was beating just a hair faster than it should, “You like it?” he repeated flatly.

“I mean to say, well, of course, I don’t _mind _it,” Of course. He was just being kind, trying to be a friend as he always had been after the moons, and Remus was a fool for even hoping. He considered the seam of the blanket in his hands and felt Sirius’ eyes on his face, “What’s wrong?” 

His voice was too kind, just nearly _sweet_ and it was more than Remus’ heart could take. He sat up again, throwing back the blankets, hearing the bleak, apologetic note in his own voice as he said, “No, I really think I should go.”

“Moony, wait!” Sirius said, and Remus forced himself to ignore the frantic tone as he swung his legs out of bed, “What did I say?” Sirius implored, “I’m sorry, Moons, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Pads,” Remus said, finding his wand and summoning his shoes with a wordless _accio_.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Sirius pointed out.

“Please just leave it,” Remus asked tightly, moon-clumsy fingers fumbling with his shoelaces, “You didn’t do anything, I’m just a bloody idiot.”

Sirius snorted at that as if it was absurd, “Since when?”

Remus couldn’t help the defeated laugh that came out of him at that, the moon-ache and the heartache combining to loosen his lips, “Oh, some time in fourth year, but that’s beside the point.”

“Fourth—?” Sirius began to ask. 

“Don’t bother,” Remus said, deeming the tangle of laces adequate, reaching for his other shoe where it sat beside him. Sirius grabbed it before he did, “Sirius, _please_, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sirius held the shoe between both hands, shook his head, “I think perhaps we ought to talk about it anyway, whatever it is.”

Remus gave a long, frustrated sigh, “Just let me go,” he pleaded, the words landing too meaningful even to his own ears.

“Not on your life,” Sirius said, voice soft yet fierce. He at least had the decency to act as though they were just talking about Remus leaving his flat, “You’re in no condition to Apparate, and your bloody flat is so depressing I reckon it’d make you ill all on its own. You need _rest._”

It was too much, the signature over-confidence, the concern, the infuriating _correctness_ of it because, really, who in their right mind would choose the drab cold greyness of Remus’ pokey little bedsit over the plush warmth of Sirius Black’s bed, least of all with every beautiful, infuriating bit of him right there within reach? Remus felt all the ache of it sharpen into impatience, “Well, then, _Merlin_, Pads, if I need rest so bloody much, why don’t you shut up and let me sleep?”

Sirius was quiet for a half-second and even though Remus was looking away, he could imagine clearly the way he’d blinked at the shift in Remus’ attitude, “Alright,” he said, and Remus heard the _thump_ of his shoe hitting the floor as Sirius discarded it, “Alright, yeah, sleep. I’ll shut up.” Remus toed off the shoe he’d managed to inexpertly put on, flopping back against the bed and shutting his eyes, determined to sleep and ignore Sirius’ confounding presence. 

For a tense moment he lay there, eyes squeezed shut, excruciatingly aware of Sirius watching him. Finally he sighed, “Sirius?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you staring at me?” somehow it was a bit easier to acknowledge with his own eyes still closed.

“Just thinking,” Sirius said.

Remus’ heart sank. _Here it comes_, “Right,” he said, and his voice barely trembled, “Let’s hear it, then. What has Sirius Black got in his great, big, marvelous brain?”

Sirius didn’t snort a laugh as he might have, just answered calmly after an instant’s hesitation, “Bryce Puck.”

Remus had not expected that and his eyes flew open as he gave a sort of gasp-cough in surprise, “What?” he studied Sirius’ unreadable expression, “Why are you thinking about them?”

Sirius bit his lip, as if considering his choice of words. That in and of itself was troublingly out of character, “Well… I know you like the place, but you know its reputation, yeah?” he asked.

Remus wrinkled his nose, nodding, “You mean about them meddling?” Sirius gave a tight nod, “People claim they put all kinds of potions in their drinks, but I’m skeptical.”

Sirius flicked his hair out of his eyes with a jerk of his head, “I reckon it’s true,” Remus grew still, watching Sirius closely. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, eyes glued to the wall behind the headboard, “You recall me nearly making a scene the other day?” Remus nodded even though Sirius wouldn’t see it, “Well… it’s, you know I’m not great at taking news.”

“News,” Remus repeated blandly, before Sirius’ meaning reached him, “‘_Not great’_ is generous, Pads. When Prongs told you he’d proposed to Lily, you went into a possessive sulk and forgot to even congratulate him until I’d lectured you about the meaning of the word ‘_prat_’.”

Sirius gave a one-shouldered shrug, conceding the point, “Right, yeah, thank you for the example.”

“So, Bryce Puck gave you… news?” Remus said, encouraging Sirius to elaborate. He had thought he knew where this was going, knew what the source of the tension between them had been, but the mention of Puck had thrown him off.

“Well, not _news_, exactly,” Sirius said, vaguely, “But new to me all the same,” he tugged at his hair, “And the thing is, Moony, I can’t bloody seem to make heads or tails of it, and well…” he smiled wryly, “_You’re_ bloody brilliant at taking news, clapped James on the back straight away and went to fetch a _cake_, didn’t you?” Sirius laughed humorlessly to himself, “So… this is probably a dreadful idea, but since when has that ever stopped me. Maybe, do you think, could you… help?”

“Help?” Remus echoed.

“Help me,” Sirius waved one hand in an unclear gesture, “Help me, like, _deal_ with it?”

“Erm, sure, Pads,” Remus agreed, even though his ribs had gone rather tight. 

Sirius fell silent, and he stayed that way for a considerable time, his teeth pulling at his lip. Remus began to think that perhaps he’d gotten cold feet, and had thought better of saying anything at all. And he didn’t _speak_, just moved so slowly it was nearly imperceptible, like the tide coming in, until Remus realized belatedly that he was leaning closer. His eyes, Remus realized, had stopped staring at the wall and the bedclothes and his fingernails and had instead landed on his lips. They flickered up to make eye contact, and it was searingly vulnerable and uncertain. The look in his eyes was so intense, it nearly distracted from the warm, steady press of his lips as they met Remus’. They were soft, as soft as Remus had ever daydreamed, and Remus wanted very much to melt into the kiss, but their eyes were still open and he wasn’t quite sure that he was brave enough to believe this was really happening at all. Sirius’ lips parted slightly and then his tongue was tracing the seam of Remus’ lips and he opened to him—_as if he could do anything else!_—eyelids fluttering but not falling shut. Sirius tilted his head, deepening the kiss just enough to lick into Remus’ mouth, the slide of their tongues coy and yet somehow utterly fucking natural.

And then Sirius pulled back, licking his lips as if to taste Remus a little longer, his voice barely more than a whisper as he asked, “You understand?”

“I…” Remus very nearly agreed straight away, his heart yearning towards Sirius, the glow of Sirius’ kiss still on his lips. But, no. He couldn’t risk an assumption right now, he needed to know that what Sirius was saying, what Sirius was offering, was the same thing that he wanted, “I think I’d really rather like to hear it in words, Pads. If you don’t mind.”

Sirius gave a strained smile, “Bollocks, alright,” he huffed. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose before saying in a quick rush, “I fancy you. I mean, I reckon I do. Have feelings for you, that is, _fuck_, if Bryce Puck is to be believed, I have done for quite some time but was too bloody thick to realize it.”

Remus examined Sirius’ face as he ran over the words again in his head, feeling like he could still do with a more thorough explanation. But Sirius said he _fancied_ him, had fancied him for quite some time, _how much time?_ “Oh,” he heard himself say as his thoughts whirled, “Interesting.”

“_Interesting?_” Sirius repeated, voice gone a bit shrill, expression gone desperate around the eyes.

Without a second thought, Remus took pity on him, surging forward and kissing him. This kiss was not tepidly cautious like the first, but years of longing distilled. One of Remus’ hands cupped Sirius’ jaw, guiding the angle of his mouth, while the other clutched at his shoulder perhaps just nearly too tight. Sirius’ arms were around him in a flash, a sweet little groan vibrating into Remus’ mouth. Lips and teeth and tongue tangled enthusiastically, the kiss far from perfect and yet downright romantic in the palpable shared relief of _finally._

Remus wasn’t sure when they’d fallen back onto the bed, limbs wonderfully entwined, but when they finally broke apart, their grinning faces rested on the same pillow. Remus chuckled, the ache in his body forgotten, burned away it seemed by the brightness of a love he’d never dared imagine requited, “I think we owe Bryce Puck a cake,” he panted, his lips still near enough to brush Sirius’ as he spoke.

Sirius laughed breathlessly, “I reckon we might,” he agreed, and then Remus was being kissed again.

#### X. Share

It was Christmas Eve, and Bryce was in their element. They had monopolized one corner of the well-appointed kitchen, chocolate and mint marrying in their cauldron, fortified with Cheering Solution and Warming Draught. Not that anyone lacked for cheer or warmth this evening. It was a joyous occasion, and the joy of it was tangible in the air, that ineffable kind of magic that came rawly from people gathered in harmony. 

Today marked the start of a new era for _The Open Mind Free Library._ It was the first proper Christmas party they’d ever held, and in a manner of speaking was a christening for their newly improved premises. The little house that Theo’s parents had given him was practically unrecognizable, now far bigger on the inside than it appeared to be from the street, thanks to a clever series of Extension Charms. The drafts no longer slipped through the walls as if through cheesecloth, everything newly weatherized and warded. New furniture filled the rooms, including the new rooms for boarders on the much-expanded second floor. There were proper desks now in proper classrooms on the ground floor, Water-Repelling Charms on the alphabetized shelves of books, a proper infirmary with a couple beds and a full stockroom of medicines and potions.

The _Library_ had undergone an astonishing transformation in only a couple of months. Only days after Bryce had formally made Samson’s acquaintance, still dizzy from the whirlwind of what they had already been nearly ready to call ‘_love_’, Bryce had been pleasantly surprised to see Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. They had walked into _The Lucky Cup_, all bashful smiles with their hands clasped between them. Samson had been loitering by the counter, batting his beautiful brown eyes at Bryce, so that when the two men had approached, they had all gotten to talking. Bryce laughingly accepted Sirius’ thanks for the eye-opening coffee that had (albeit jarringly) made him realize how he felt about his best mate. It was while Sirius was speaking to them directly that Remus and Samson had discovered that they shared an acquaintance, Samson’s good friend and fellow _Librarian_, Zinnia.

Remus had remembered Zinnia’s impassioned speeches about _The Open Mind Free Library_, and had been eager to see it. Sirius had shared the sentiment once the _Library’_s goals and role had been explained to him. Samson had shot Bryce a surprised, nervous smile over his shoulder as if to say ‘_wish me luck!’_ as he had left the tea shop moments later to take Remus and Sirius to see the project into which he and his friends had poured nearly all they had. He needn’t have been worried, as it turned out, as not only Remus and Sirius but their good friends, the now-married Potters, had enthusiastically joined the _Library_, generously sharing not only their finances (though those had admittedly made a world of difference) but their time, their magical skill, and their fiendishly creative imaginations.

It was not only the Library that had transformed, though, but their lives. It boggled the mind to think that only a few scant months ago, Bryce had been so lonely that their heart had skipped at the chance at the company of an alley cat. Admittedly, that same cat made their heart skip now, but not for the sake of their loneliness. Their life was full now, of Samson’s tender love, of the friendship of Remus, and Sirius, the Potters, the eclectic and good-hearted _Librarians_, the various and sundry who frequented the _Library_, most of all the children who hung on their every word when they told jokes and stories. _The Lucky Cup_ remained their pride and joy, but the _Library_ had become their home.

In the next room, Logan had enchanted the piano to play carols unattended and Bryce could just pick out the familiar melodies under the sounds of revelry. They had just decanted the cocoa to a large carafe and were heaping shimmering marshmallows into a serving bowl when the noise from the next room grew louder, and they turned to see who had opened the door. Their face split into a smile at the sight of Samson, looking perfect as anything to Bryce in a red and white sweater, knitted reindeer and hares frolicking across his chest, “There you are,” he said around his own smile, crossing the space between them in a few strides. He straightened the green stocking cap on Bryce’s head, “Should’ve known you’d be hiding in the kitchen.”

“Who’s hiding?” Bryce asked, popping up on tiptoes to peck Samson on the cheek, “I am merely following my muse and fulfilling the need for cocoa.”

“A noble endeavor,” Samson agreed gravely, picking up the bowl of marshmallows and popping one into his mouth, “Even if the poor refreshment table is already in danger of collapse.”

Bryce picked up the carafe of cocoa, nudging Samson in the ribs good-naturedly as they headed out the kitchen door. The party glittered, not only with the truly outrageous quantity of fairy lights, tinsel, and ornaments but with the optimism and high spirits of a found family, united by their hopes and dedication. Lily Potter and Bipsy the house-elf were whirling and dancing, to the delight of the watching crowd. Kids ran hither and thither underfoot, faces shining with the remnants of icing. Zinnia and a couple teens were lacing yet another garland ‘round the chandelier. Logan and Bérengère bickered by the window, eyes only for each other. Across the room, Bryce spotted Remus and Sirius, leaning against each other fondly, dreamy grins on their faces. Bryce’s own grin somehow widened even more. 

_This,_ they thought as they and Samson made room on the refreshment table for the cocoa and marshmallows, _has to be the most good that’s ever come from a single cup of coffee._

_The End_


End file.
